


My Big Fat Celestial Wedding

by CopperBeech



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crack, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), F/F, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Geese, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Humor, Ineffable Bureaucracy, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, No Angst, Shivaree, The Ritz, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Planning, Weddings, okay maybe a tiny little bit of angst but blink and you miss it, wedding party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27121360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: In which Heaven and Hell decide to make lemons into lemonade and, since they can’t fight, embark on comity, with a mutually coordinated dynastic wedding ceremony as the first overture. Lighter than air. Copper needed silly.Crowley sucked down a cup of coffee that would have scalded an ordinary mortal gullet, and yawned hugely with a display of flickering tongue. “Do stop flirting,” murmured Aziraphale, closing his eyes in mixed exasperation and concupiscence. “And read this.”Crowley took the sheet of cream-laid paper and torn envelope, raked fingers through his already unruly hair, and scratched his shoulders with scientific thoroughness – he was pretty sure his snake form was going to shed soon – while he scanned the calligraphed text, the two signatures adorned with a little smiley face.“Angel,” he said finally. “This is bollocks.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Dagon/Uriel (Good Omens), Hastur/Sandalphon (Good Omens), Ligur/Michael (Good Omens)
Comments: 246
Kudos: 156





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KannaOphelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/gifts).



> I've wanted to gift a fic to Kanna-Ophelia for a while -- in thanks for support, reblogging, and just plain friendship -- but I wanted it to be something as light as a meringue. When this idea popped into my head, I ran with it -- a detour into crack and fluff after a couple of emotionally intense fics, with just a bit of sniffly wedding stuff.

“Bleedin’ daft idea, y’ask me,” said Hastur, lighting a Gauloise from the smoked-down butt of the last one, in defiance of the sign which thanked him for keeping this building smoke-free. He’d made a quick side trip to resupply on the way to the meeting. It looked like he was going to need it.

“Nobody did,” said Dagon, who had a laptop open on the table in front of her, to take the minutes.

“Dunno, could be a lark,” said Ligur, looking chipper for someone who had not that long ago been dissolved by Holy Water. “Hear people get up to all kinds’ve shenanigans at these things. Drinkin’, lechery, fightin’ with relations.”

“S’posed t’be _dancin’,”_ Hastur shuddered. “Catch me dancin’.”

They’d chosen a businessman’s hotel just outside London -- rates inside the M25 were just too high, especially with the expenses of reorganization – and the fluorescent glare from overhead, to say nothing of the burnt orange upholstery on the caster chairs, did little for anyone’s complexion. The meeting room contained one long table, a screen for Powerpoint presentations, a water cooler – Hastur had nervously tested it on a few plucked-out hairs, but there was nothing Holy about it – and a coffee urn. Ligur was on his third cup.

“Can smell angel,” grumbled Hastur.

“Funny, I can’t smell anything but you,” said Dagon, who herself smelled like a wharf at low tide. Her rudimentary gills fluttered slightly.

“Well, _naturally_ we’ll have to talk them both around, but isn’t that what your bunch do all day every day?” came a booming, unctuous voice from halfway down the hall. “We’ll just play to our strengths. You may not realize it, Prince B., but you’ve got _considerable_ charm. You could probably even talk _me_ into a thing or two – “

“Oi, be obvious, why don’t you,” said Hastur, but only under his breath, because the door was already opening and an irksome luminescence, accompanied by a polite, offended cough, preceded the Archangel Gabriel into the room. Lesser clouds of faint radiance in slightly different shades of blue-white heralded the Archangel Michael (she carried a slim briefcase with a combination lock), the Archangel Uriel (bearing an accordion file) and the Archangel Sandalphon, who finished a canned energy drink as he entered and hit the wastebasket with a rim shot. Gabriel looked at him disparagingly.

“Could get to like that, gross or not,” Sandalphon said.

Prince Beelzebub could be heard just outside chewing out someone in what was probably the Sloth department, where workers tended to get a little high on their own supply and slack off.

“You’re still using flip phones, Prince?” Gabriel again, as zhe entered, scowling thunderously.

“Upgrade in June,” said Dagon.

“Well, there you are. Another benefit of a potential _rapprochement._ _We’ve_ all got the latest touchscreen models. You could be taking selfies.”

“Crowley invented those, y’know,” said Ligur. “ ‘n’ those stick things that go with’m.”

“Yes, bringing me to the reason we’re here. All present, I see – “

Gabriel pulled a chair around to the head of the table and sat down importantly.

Beelzebub pulled another to the opposite end, glowered, and sent a small flurry of flies in Gabriel’s direction.

“ _Flirt,”_ mouthed Dagon.

“Archangels, Dukes, Princes,” continued Gabriel obliviously. “This meeting of the Wedding Planning Committee for the traitors Aziraphale and Crowley is now called to order.”

* * *

There was really only one way to deal with it, in the end. They were stumped; the war wasn’t happening, and the Principality and the demon had had the effrontery – the brazen gall! first, to _celebrate_ by imbibing gross matter in scandalous proportions (thought Gabriel glumly), rejoicing (disapproved Beelzebub), and then – it barely bore thinking about – _fraternizing_ in ways that were distinctly _not_ fraternal, hands all over each other’s corporations in dark doorways, snogging openly in the park, doing inventive things which fired Beelzebub’s imagination so disturbingly that zhe fried the bug in the flat above the bookshop (flylords are good at planting bugs), though not before dubbing a sound recording to send Upstairs to Gabriel.

And now they were apparently planning to _marry_. The human way. Heaven’s photographers had captured a series of still shots in St. James’ Park: the Principality down on one knee (carefully spreading a handkerchief to avoid stains on the cashmere), Crowley pulling him up and swinging him around in an embrace, weeping and laughing in a way that Michael had been forced to illustrate through numerous film clips and jewelry advertisements was characteristic of a marriage proposal. Just to be sure everyone was on the same page, she opened her briefcase and passed copies to everyone present, finally using the large screen to replay the exemplar videos. It seemed incontestable that the traitors were preparing to embark on a life of wedded bliss.

Like all meddling families, they were going to get involved.

* * *

“Apparently it’s one of the most common ways the humans form alliances,” explained Michael. “Entire countries normalize their relations when members of their ruling families contract a marriage. It’s also one of the largest types of celebration in any human culture. Friendships are formed, bonds strengthened, hatchets buried.”

“Sounds fun,” murmured Hastur. “Little bit’ve hatchet work.”

“Nah, that’s a meta-thingy,” Ligur whispered back. “Meta-fur.”

“Hence,” Gabriel went on, picking up the thread, “since there will _be no war –_ since Heaven and Hell must now re-examine our entire relationship of the past sixty centuries – what better way than to come together on this most symbolic occasion? I will even waive my misgivings about _gross matter_ if it will move us forward. I understand a great deal is consumed at such events.”

“I have some references,” said Michael, producing a stack of magazines from her apparently bottomless briefcase.

Several YouTube videos later, Dagon and Beelzebub were huddled perplexedly over an issue of _Modern Bride_ and Sandalphon was leaning over Uriel’s shoulder as she reviewed a slideshow about buffets.

“Cake seems to be a common theme,” she said.

“The Principality appears very fond of cake,” agreed Michael. “I have multiple photographs.”

“Soddin’ little voyeur, you,” said Hastur.

“Be nice,” growled Ligur.

 _“Ligur likes Michael,”_ Hastur taunted _sotto voce._ A fly flew into his eye.

“Behave,” snapped Beelzebub, not looking up from an article about bouquets.

“I think we can see,” Gabriel cut over the small conversations, “that there are multiple aspects to this sort of event. Just as with the War, there’s personnel, materiel, and strategy to consider. I suggest we assign teams to these respective tasks, with one representative from each side. Michael, Ligur, since you’ve worked together before, I’m detailing you to study Human wedding traditions and see about the venue. Location is clearly an important consideration. It obviously can’t be a church – “

“Might see some good dancing,” said Sandalphon with an unpleasant smile.

“ –– _Sandy,_ good buddy, since you’ve spoken up, I’ll ask you to work with Duke Hastur on the question of food and drink. A large dinner is obviously traditional. Prince Dagon, Uriel is the angel of the arts, and if you two could work on the music, Prince Beelzebub and I will look into the ceremonial dressing of the wedding party, flowers, decorations and so forth. We’ll also make contact with the happy couple and let them know that we’re taking the heavy burden of planning such a consequential event off their hands. I understand that mortals hire people for this purpose all the time. They should be overjoyed.”

* * *

“I just want you to know I had nothing to do with what Crowley used on you,” said Michael. “That was all down to the Principality Aziraphale.”

“Ah, all Holy Water under th’bridge,” said Ligur. “Boss’s kid put me back good’s new, din’ee? Even got rid of the boil I had on m’arse when I got dunked. Show ya.”

Michael glared sternly.

“Just go lurk at some Human weddings to see what difference the location makes,” she said. “I’m told you’re good at it.”

* * *

“Just so you know, squire, I think it’s a load of old cobblers.”

“That’s two of us, if I understand you correctly, but it is not ours to disobey,” observed Sandalphon.

“Dunno why not. _They_ did.”

“And this may persuade them to less disruptive behaviour. At least, they’ll know Heaven and Hell are watching. We have our assignment. Do you eat?”

“Depends where I’m temptin’.”

“Well, if we’re to choose food and drink, I suppose becoming familiar with it is our first order of business, however repellent,” said Sandalphon, not looking especially repelled. “I see a place that serves both is attached to this establishment. Duke Hastur, may I invite you to a business lunch?”

* * *

“It’s something called Spotify, and there’s another one called Primephonic for the _classical_ repertory. Given the tastes of the, ah, grooms, we’ll need to accommodate both. I suggest we each review one. I’ll arrange for you to be supplied with a fully featured smartphone and earbuds.”

“Do I get to keep it?”

“If this goes the way we want it to, everyone in the upper echelons of Hell will have one. Keep the goal in sight.”

* * *

“So what do you think, Prince? Off to a good start?”

“I suppose so. Are you and I done for today then?”

“Only if you _want_ to be, Prince. We’ve certainly earned some time off – “

“I mean is that everything we need to cover until the next meeting?”

“Well – you and I could get a head start on our tasks, if you aren’t too busy – “

“I have the time, Archangel.”

“And I’ve got the inclination.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind,” sighed Gabriel. “We’ve got this room till four. I think you and I should sit down together and compose a letter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello or welcome back! Come bug me on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


	2. Chapter 2

“My dear. You really ought to put on more clothing than that before coming downstairs.”

“ ‘M’not _downstairs,_ ” said Crowley, who was, strictly speaking, correct, as he was only halfway down the bookshop’s spiral staircase and had flopped over the railing in a boneless posture of gymnastic somnolence.

“You are _visible_ from the whole downstairs. And though I find your behind entirely fetching, and the sight of you wearing only one of my own shirts charming, I must point out that in this position the one does not entirely cover the other.”

“You like it.”

“Customers might react strongly.”

“You hate customers.”

“Precisely. I should prefer to keep such a lovely spectacle to myself. Besides, I think you really need to read what just came by post.”

“Not good f’r anything till I’ve had my coffee – “

“My _dear._ At least button the front.”

“Y’like that too.”

“Time and place.”

“Not what y’said in the back of the Bentley th'other night.”

“That was different – here, I used the French press I got you last week, I think I’m getting the trick of it – “

Crowley sucked down a cup of coffee that would have scalded an ordinary mortal gullet, and yawned hugely with a display of flickering tongue. “ _Do_ stop flirting,” murmured Aziraphale, closing his eyes in mixed exasperation and concupiscence. “And read this.”

Crowley took the sheet of cream-laid paper and torn envelope, raked fingers through his already unruly hair, and scratched his shoulders with scientific thoroughness – he was pretty sure his snake form was going to shed soon – while he scanned the calligraphed text, the two signatures adorned with a little smiley face.

“Angel,” he said finally. “This is _bollocks.”_

“Well, comparison with the genuine article is readily available. If you’re going to keep raising your arm like that.”

Crowley yanked at the shirt.

“They wanted to bloody barbecue you and _dissolve_ me, and now it’s one big happy family doin’ the Harry an’ Meghan thing?”

“One could hope for less _bebop_ ,” said Aziraphale. “But I trust I can influence their music selection.”

“You mean you wanna let ’em _do_ this?”

“We have nothing to lose by being gracious. It might even avoid ever reaching the point where they come to loggerheads again. We can spend a tiresome afternoon for the sake of that.”

“Are you _mental?_ ‘Hi, Ligur, hope you aren’t still mad about gettin’ melted, what’s new, Dagon? Pop in on my new HDTV sometime?’ – “

“I realize a certain amount of awkwardness is bound to be involved.”

“There’s a little halo over the G in Gabriel, angel. A little _halo_. And little _horns_ on the B. Like they want to be cute.”

“It represents an effort of sorts.”

“Show _you_ an effort.”

“You already are, _do_ button up the shirt – “

“A _smiley_ face. Those’re one’ve _mine – “_

“I knew it.”

"What’s with the – _committee?_ Scheduling _fittings?_ Floral – Angel, we were just going to sort it at the Registry Office. Take a holiday in Sussex. Look for a place.”

“We can still do that. The holiday and househunting, I mean. We have all the time in the world.”

“You are bloody _serious._ ”

“I am taking the long view.”

“You blessed _idiot.”_

“You’re too kind.”

“Remind me why I sleep with you again?”

“”Because I don’t sleep, and therefore don't snore the way you do?”

“You know what I meant by _sleep with_.”

“I couldn’t possibly guess.”

“Have t’show you every time, don’t I – “

“Mmmph! Dear, you mustn’t – _really,_ I already turned the sign around – you know I can’t help myself when you do that – mmm, perhaps there is something to be said for this sort of exiguous attire – “

The door chime jangled. Aziraphale jumped, only to to find his blue Oxford shirt crumpled at his feet and a large black serpent receding behind the nearest shelf in a series of S-curves, the scales dull here and there as if it were time for a fresh skin. The letter _had_ mentioned the whole matter of new clothes for the event.

Quarrelling was nothing new in their relationship, but at least lately every quarrel ended up this way. He got rid of the customer in record time.

* * *

Dagon gazed with naked cupidity (she had been in charge of that department, back in the day) at the razor-thin, matte-silver laptop on which Gabriel was queueing up a series of clips: someone’s beach wedding video from Facebook, the Sword Arch ceremony at West Point, outtakes from Bollywood films _._ Sandalphon had brought in a tray of sandwiches and crisp packets from the hotel’s cafe, and was working on his second bacon butty. Michael looked on in fascinated horror – finally, stealthily sampling the Walkers' salt-and-vinegar flavour.

“The printouts you have at your seats detail the most intriguing of the symbolic acts we’ve identified,” said Gabriel. “There seems to be wide variation in human culture. There’s a common thread of the celebrants being accompanied by a party of friends and family on either side. For example, in the culture where our happy couple currently base themselves, the selection and dressing of bridesmaids seems to occupy an inordinate amount of time and energy. I gather that a good deal of bickering and argument is involved, which must have some ceremonial meaning.”

“Well, which one is the bride? We’re genderless beings. These corporations are merely for convenience.”

“Tell _them_ that, they’ve been gendering away down there for millennia while we thought they were thwarting each other,” said Sandalphon through the bacon butty.

“Angel’s gotta be the bride, 'cos the girl's the sweety-softy one,” said Hastur.

“Right,” said Michael, looking particularly smitey.

“Crowley uses a female corporation more often,” offered Beelzebub.

“So who’s gonna bridesmaid for ‘im? Us?” Hastur elbowed Ligur. “Matchin’ dresses.”

“No bridesmaids,” Beelzebub decided quickly. “There are plenty of other traditions to choose from.”

“I like this one,” said Sandalphon, running his finger down the printed handout. “Here, where the groom’s friends capture the bride after the ceremony and he has to fight them all to rescue her.”

“Well – that’s still gendered,” countered Uriel.

“True,” said Michael, “but we’ve determined that Crowley has been rescuing Aziraphale repeatedly for so many centuries, we’re pretty sure it’s a – ah – “

“Kink,” supplied Ligur. “Might like that.”

Dagon tapped her keyboard.

“Here’s one where the groom has to give the bride’s father a whale’s tooth.”

“No go. Crowley’s soft on whales.”

“Also, what’s She want with a tooth?”

“I like this one,” said Hastur, pointing out a Korean custom that involved beating the groom’s feet with canes and dead fish.

“No dead fish,” said Dagon.

“Here’s one where the groom shoots the bride three times with a quarrel arrow.”

“They do quarrel a lot.”

“Different meaning.”

“How about this? The groom gives the bride’s mother geese or ducks. We’ve got so many photos of them feeding ducks.” 

“Does the Almighty really want her own personal ducks? I mean, they’re all Hers anyway.” Uriel was skeptical.

“It’s easy, it’s something they’ll both like, just add it in,” sighed Gabriel into his palm.

“There is – “ Beelzebub cut through the side conversation between Hastur and Sandalphon about foot-beating, _‘course, he’d just go snake and there wouldn’t be any feet to beat._ “There’s supposed to be something called a _bachelor party_ , which I could delegate to a couple of the Sin departments. Excessive alcohol consumption and lust-inducing dancers are standard features.”

“What do those two consider _excessive?”_ demurred Uriel.

“And how dear do the dancers come?” asked Michael. “We do have a budget.”

“I like this Chinese one,” said Dagon. “The bride sits home with her Mother and cries for a month.”

“ _No_. _She_ is not going to be a part of this. Just give the ducks to the Metatron and done.”

“At least the bachelor party custom appears gender-neutral,” said Michael, “though it would appear the bride frequently receives gifts of multiple sex toys.” She was flicking her way over the mousepad of the Celestial laptop.

“What’s a sex toy?” asked Hastur. Technology had never been his strong suit.

“Like this,” said Michael, turning the laptop toward the Hellish delegation, tabs opened to Toys in Babeland and JT’s Stock Room.

“Missed those,” said Beelzebub, picking up zher new smartphone to tap surreptitiously into the search field.

“Know what they’d like?” said Ligur. “You bein’ the one with the roving cameraman, ‘n’ all.”

“Perhaps some general research is warranted,” said Michael, looking him in the eye while she saved a bookmark.

“And,” said Gabriel, clearly eager to move on from this topic, “there is _always_ dancing. _Formal_ dancing. By the guests.”

“Here it comes,” sighed Hastur.

“Please turn your attention to the large screen. We will first watch through this instructional video supplied by Uriel and Prince Dagon. You will then attempt to duplicate the ritual movements with your task partner. Dancing between the two delegations is clearly part of the rapprochement process we wish to advance. Prince, please help me move this table out of the way.”

He gave zher his hand. Zhe gave him a sour look.

* * *

"Angel, you really mean it. You want to let 'em do this."

"We knew they were going to meddle. It was only a matter of time -- mm, keep doing that."

"It’s daft."

"It’s harmless -- oh, just a little harder -- "

"It’s barking."

"It’s -- there, that's lovely -- Heaven and Hell on the same page, Crowley, for once not trying to smite or incinerate one another. The same people we had to hide from and deceive for centuries. We changed the world, or at least we were part of that. Why not -- _ahhh_ \-- let the changes unfold?"

"I hate you."

"I know, dear. Could you move a little to the left... ah... there. It's awful how the wings itch when you don't let them out."

* * *

“He’s leadin’,” grumbled Hastur after stepping on Sandalphon’s foot twice.

“So?” asked Dagon, who had gotten the hang of dipping Uriel; they had clearly practiced as part of their research, and were the only pair who had attempted the tango.

“I should be leadin’.”

“”Thought you didn’t wanna dance,” said Ligur.

“Don’t wanna dance _backwards._ Not got eyes inna back’ve me head, do I?”

“Couple of the guys from the Envy department do. We could bring ’em in.”

“Ah, go sod yourself,” said Hastur.

“Already placed the order.”

“Before you leave,” said Gabriel, “I’d like all the teams to be sure their findings are in my hands and Prince Beelzebub’s. We’ll be contacting the happy couple again so that they can consider the proposals for ritual activities, buffet menu and flower selection. Practice in your spare time so that we’ll be able to instruct the guests ahead of the occasion. They’ll be selected in the next couple of weeks.”

Hastur was the last to leave, lingering to finish the remaining chip butty and watch over the wedding scene from _The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel._


	3. Chapter 3

“You are aware that these are the sexual organs of plants," Beelzebub pointed out.

“Well, technically, Prince, yes. I gather it’s meant to indicate the spirit of the occasion.”

“To offer encouragement? In case there is reticence?”

“I – ah – don’t believe our couple require any encouragement, at least judging by those audiofiles you sent.”

“Perhaps it is meant to salute their prowess and inspire others to do likewise.”

“Possibly – though -- there seem to be a wide variety of ceremonial meanings. Often worn as garlands at functions like this, or in the lapels.”

“We are meant to appear wearing sexual organs on our lapels?”

“I believe it’s a bit like a Human saying I’ve encountered about wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve. One of those meta-somethings. Speaking of which, we need to move along. I've made an appointment at a haberdasher's.”

“Very well. Mercantile human! Please show us which sexual organs you recommend for a wedding ceremony.”

* * *

“No, no, _absolutely_ not,” said Aziraphale more or less to the air in front of him, hands raised in protest, as Crowley sloped into the shop.

“You on the line, angel? I’ll come back later.” Aziraphale had explained about the channel to Upstairs, during that long (but not long enough) night in Crowley’s flat after the Apocalypse was thwarted. The last thing Crowley wanted to do was distract him while he was using it.

“Oh – no, dear, it’s just another letter. They do seem to want to do this the Human way.”

“Let’s see.” Crowley dropped a carrier containing a couple of bottles on the couch and plucked the deckled stationery out of Aziraphale’s hand. There were several pages. “Wine – menu – centerpieces – not seein’ anything seems that awful, angel. Long’s we’re doin’ this at all.”

“They want us each to wear the other side’s _livery,_ Crowley. As a symbolic thing.”

“So?”

“It’s all very well for you. You look perfectly dazzling in white – I still remember that winsome little caterer’s jacket – but black simply _drains_ my complexion, and red is _absolutely_ not my colour.”

“It’s all for peace and comity, angel.”

“There will be neither comity nor peace if I am obliged to appear in public on our _special day_ dressed like a stage Mephistopheles. You might as well go all the way and pencil on that little faux moustache again.”

“That was your idea to begin with.”

“For pulling scarves out of _hats_. I hope that won’t be part of this occasion.”

“ ‘Member what we did with those scarves eventually,” said Crowley thoughtfully.

“You’re _changing the subject,_ Crowley. We have to present a united front. I said we should cooperate, not let ourselves be pulled about like puppets on strings.”

“United front? Mmmm, now I’m really thinkin’ of things…”

“Crowley, be serious – “

“Oh, I’m in _dead_ earnest. Let’s try a _red_ scarf, hm, here, just to – “

“You miracled that.”

“ M’not the one with the stage magic fetish.”

“No, just – _– Crowley –_ “

“No use strugglin’. I did miracle it. Won’t give.”

“I could miracle it off.”

“You don’t want to.”

“What if I do?”

“You’d’ve done it already. Now, me, got no reservations ‘bout miraclin’ things off – don’t worry, all goin’ to your wardrobe upstairs – hm, this comes off the old fashioned way – “

“That’s my best tie – ”

“Yes?” It was useless trying to reason with Crowley in this mood.

“Just turn the sign around,” sighed Aziraphale.

* * *

“Hmmm. I must admit that lends a – _special_ tang to the proceedings.”

“I can tell. Should’ve gotten the hint back in the Bastille.”

“For a demon you can be a slow study, dear.”

“Reckon I was a little focused on you bein’ about to get discorporated.”

“I knew you’d come.”

“Don’t I always?”

“If I have anything to do with it,” purred Aziraphale silkily. “Let’s have some of what you brought and look over that letter again, shall we?”

“Here we are, it’s twenty year old Jura – just a bloody _minute_ , angel. They don’t want _white.”_

“Well, reasonably in that family.”

“They want all that beige and grey and lavender business. Like a dentist’s waiting room – “

“When ever have _you_ been in a dentist’s waiting room? Do fangs get _cavities_?”

“They’re one’ve mine, you knew that. Just like office art – now it’s _you_ changing the subject, angel, I don’t do _pastels.”_

 _“_ Oh, I don’t know. You’re adorable padding around in my shirt to find your coffee and so on. It’s become quite a thrill taking my own clothes off you – ckkkkk!“

“ _Shut it!_ I’m not adorable! Demons aren’t _adorable! – ”_

“ – don’t spill whisky on the first editions – “

“I’ll spill whatever I damned please.”

“Darling, really, again this soon? – “

“ _Grrrrr.”_

_* * *_

“You do that to get me to do _that_ , don’t you? Bastard.” Crowley, though he’d have denied it, was smiling drowsily against Aziraphale’s shoulder and his tone was distinctly more tranquil..

“Do what, dear?”

“Don’t give me that innocent look.” Crowley was still sleepy-eyed as he pushed himself up, but the yellow irises were blown.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Fingertip to cupid’s-bow lips, low growl. “I could wipe it off your faccce.”

“Oh, honestly, not _already – mmmppphhh!!!!!“_

* * *

"Hm, maybe this weddin' plannin's not so bad. You writin' back already?"

“They’ll have to be happy with this. Snow-white for you, deep blue-black for me. I think it will be quite striking. You wear the tartan tie, I’ll wear your silver one.”

“Gotta find’ ‘em first.”

* * *

Michael was getting dark circles under her eyes. She sucked down an energy drink just as Gabriel entered the room and looked up as if daring him to comment.

“It is exhausting,” said Uriel to no one in particular, “spending so much time on this plane in human corporations.” She had mostly filled a cup with nondairy creamer and topped it up with coffee, wanting to experiment slowly with what she understood to be a strong drug. “I don’t know how they’ve been doing it.”

“Eyes on the prize, team,” said Gabriel. “Reports? Sandalphon?”

“Well, we’ve identified caterers who can provide international dishes – here’s a brochure – including an interesting selection of grubs and insects from the cultures that apparently enjoy such things – “

“They was yum,” commented Hastur.

“Which can be served as buffet or plated, costs a little extra for the waitstaff.”

“Buffet,” said Michael. “From what I've read on Yelp, they always mix up the orders. I’m not going to smile and eat crickets, I’m just figuring out macarons. And it means guests needn’t be strictly assigned to tables.”

“But that encourages mingling,” pointed out Uriel. ”If we had a seating plan.”

“You gonna go down the guest list and make sure no one’s sittin’ next to someone who smote ’em in the War?” said Hastur. “Be here all week.”

“ _Buffet,”_ said Gabriel. “Music?”

“We have quotes from a string quartet, a death metal group, a Jamaican steel band and a bagpiper.”

“E-mail the details to me and Prince B. here.”

Beelzebub had stopped in the cafe and was half through a macchiato with three espresso shots. Even the flies were walking.

“Can we try sleeping?” said Uriel. “If we’re going to learn all these other things. I haven’t been so tired since Mons.”

“ _You_ were tired,” sniped Michael.

“If you want to book a room here, the Celestial Treasury will cover it,” sighed Gabriel. “Dining and spending time in human ways, repellent as it may be, can only help with your respective tasks. Okay, now, Duke Ligur, Michael, are we any closer to engaging a venue?”

* * *

“Angel, that fitting lasted for fucking _ever._ I got stuck with pins at least twenty times. It was worse'n the time the witch-finders caught up with me in Devon.”

“You looked delicious though. Quite good enough to eat. You're always so stunning when you've just shed, it carries over.”

"And Bubs kept asking which _sexual organ_ would look best in my lapel - I had to wipe the tailor's assistant's memory three times --"

"Oh, dear, I didn't catch that."

“And I don’t want anyone’s opinions about _rings_. That’s personal.”

“It’s natural for them to get carried away. There’s never been an occasion exactly like this.”

“Bloody hope there never is one again. After today, for a groat I’d just go to Gretna Green and be done with it.”

“Dear, even that’s a cottage industry nowadays. The entire town is booked up months in advance. You can’t turn round without tripping over an anvil.”

“And you know this because…?”

“I confess I did look into it.” Aziraphale looked a bit sheepish.

“You’re _adorable_ when you get caught. _Caught you!_ Hold still – _caught you again!_ – “”

“Do not _boop_ my nose – I’ll have you know the Guardian of the Eastern Gate is _not_ adorable -- "

"-- dish it out, can't take it -- "

" -- I am terrible and – oof – mighty, and I wield the Sword of Righteousness – “

“Oh, yes, _don’t_ you - ”

“ – and I spake unto Gabriel and told him we simply were _not havin_ g this bride-napping thingy, and I wasn’t the _tiniest_ bit adorable about it – “

“Nope, _total_ kitten britches.”

_“Stop tickling, you fiend – “_

“Terrible. Mighty – _aaaaahhhhhhcccckkk!!”_

“I believe I said good enough to eat -- oh, dear, look at the time!”

It was hard for Aziraphale to miss, as he was pinning down the wrist on which Crowley sported his vaguely atomic chronometer.

"Lookin' at it. So?"

"We promised to be at the sommelier's in half an hour -- they've priced three reds and three whites for us to taste and we _can't_ let them pick a substandard champagne -- they haven't the earthliest -- where ever did my glasses go -- are you coming?"

Crowley emitted a long, deflating sigh and pulled a cushion over his face.

"Nah, angel. Think I'll just spend the rest of the afternoon on the rug."

 _"Please_ don't sulk. I can't deal with Sandalphon alone. He always looks like a bulldog who's smelled a badger, and _he's_ started to smell unaccountably of Marmite himself. We'll go to Simpson's after, or maybe the Langham. Be a dear, and come along now."

* * *

“Prince B., I’d only say this to you, but I’m beginning to wonder if we’ve bitten off more than we can chew.” Gabriel popped out a CD containing the video recording of the meeting that had just concluded – a measure that had become necessary to settle arguments over who’d agreed to what – and used a Sharpie to label it with date and occasion.

“So you’ve finally started eating.”

“Just another meta-whatsit, your Highness. This whole thing has spiraled out of control. I’ve got my right-hand angel expensing pay-per-view videos with titles like _Back Channel_ , Sandalphon’s leaving junk food wrappers all over Headquarters, and someone from your side signed their RSVP with Hellfire and we had to deploy the Heavenly Hazmat Team.”

“The bitching Downstairs has been endless,” Beelzebub admitted even more gloomily than usual. “Everyone wants an invitation, and half the Avarice department got engaged after they found out about gift registries. Are we certain we cannot expand the guest list? Forty from each side seems a low number.”

“I thought it was a good Biblical one. Forty years in the wilderness, for example.”

“That will mean only five from each Sin department, and no -- what are they -- plus-ones. Even if we add guests, I suggest livestreaming the event. Shall we clear it with the -- ah -- grooms?”

Gabriel didn’t answer.

“I have just had a horrible thought,” said Beelzebub quietly. “What if they decide to be brides instead, and entirely different attire is required? I understand that the selection and adornment of a bride’s gown can occupy weeks, and even given Crowley’s unique ability to arrest time – “

“Hmmm – ? Sorry, Lord B., dozed off there. The buzzing of those flies is oddly… tranquilizing.”

Beelzebub tapped zher fingertips on the table, meditating.

When Gabriel woke up he was alone in the meeting room. Only because he detoured through the door marked _Gentlemen_ , having heard that it was reviving to splash water on one’s face, did he discover the crude flower, and the clearly recognizable sexual organ, drawn on his respective cheeks with a black Sharpie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early in my bodywork career, I was more or less auditioned by a bridesmaid slogging her way through the kind of Wedding From Hell that came into its own in the Nineties. One by one the rest of the exhausted bridal party showed up, finally combining forces to give my deluxe session to the bride as a present. They more or less carried her into my studio and deposited her on my table, arriving an hour and a half later to help her stagger bonelessly to the car and remit my fee. The wedding was the next day. I can't imagine.
> 
> Me, I threw a cookout and brought a pile of Frisbees. The marriage didn't last, but I still have the Frisbees.
> 
> Come bicker with me on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


	4. Chapter 4

“ _Walthamstow?”_ said Crowley.

“What’s wrong with it?” said Aziraphale a little crossly. Time was getting short, and they had already rejected several venues as the guest list multiplied and evidence of previous consecration came to light (in one case, only when Crowley found himself hurriedly tap-dancing backwards through a pair of double doors and into the arms of an irritated usher). “I believe you were the one who suggested we just _get this over with_." He glanced up over his reading glasses, a bit waspishly. "It'll take a miracle as it is to hire anyplace on the day, Michael promised to handle that one -- "

“It looks like a reformatory.”

“A reformatory with a _lovely_ fountain in front. The hall’s big enough, and it’s better than Central London for a troop of demons and angels with absolutely no social sense. _You_ didn’t see Gabriel in here trying to be inconspicuous -- There are some _delightful_ galleries nearby, and a nature preserve, if guests want to stay over -- which hotels were they talking about, now -- ?"

"I thought we were done with this for the day."

"Well, we can sleep on it -- Gabriel's sending more photos, I hope you don’t mind that I gave him your e-mail -- "

"Does it matter any more if I bloody mind?" It was a little unclear whether Crowley was addressing Aziraphale directly, or merely the palm of the hand currently covering his own face.

"He promised no spam.”

“Thought we'd already sorted the fucking menu.”

“ _Please_ don't be peevish, dear, I've already got a headache -- actually they've apparently gotten some kind of a rebate on the catering, and they suggested using it to book a Thames River cruise on the morning of, just for the wedding party -- that's you, me, the Archangels, the Dukes and the Princes, and oh, we're to meet Uriel tomorrow afternoon, this really ought to be the _last_ word on the music, I know it means missing the matinee - "

"Angel -- "

"And they seem to have had another idea for the floral displays -- "

" _Angel."_

Aziraphale knew that tone.

"Angel, what about _us_? When did this stop being about us?"

"Well -- you know, Crowley, the whole point of doing it this way, building bridges, laying the groundwork for peace -- "

"All I know's we've not had a day t'ourselves in the past month. If we don't stop it now when's it gonna stop? Be the in-laws comin' round every weekend? Bickerin' over Christmas dinner?"

"Well, I doubt your lot set much store by Christmas -- " Aziraphale jumped as Crowley’s hand smacked the blotter in front of him.

"Look at me, angel. When'd they start bein' _my lot_ again? What happened to _our side?"_

"I didn't mean -- " When Aziraphale looked up it was into eyes chrome-yellow with no white showing, pupils contracted to slits.

Crowley spoke in a slow measure, with pauses, as if Aziraphale might be taking dictation.

"All right. Sorry. Done here. If it means one more minute -- of _this fucking shite --_ then sod gettin' married, an' you can tell 'em that in exactly those words."

"Crowley, please, it's late, you're just tired -- "

"I love you, angel. I really do. Only right now I need to be somewhere else. Check on the plants. Sleep in my own bed. Get some fresh air."

"You don't need air at all, Crowley," quavered Aziraphale, lip trembling, but the door was already slamming, the chimes sounding like the demise of a whole china shop window.

* * *

Michael rolled over in bed and checked her smartwatch, which she’d only belatedly remembered to reset from the Armageddon countdown to the wedding calendar. The ambient nocturnal light pollution of outer London filtered through slub-weave curtains, and there was the general faint smell of synthetic fibre and cleaning compounds universal to mid-range hotels, competing with a stale pong of –

Ligur uttered a buzz-saw snore and shifted just enough to steal the blanket. The chameleon changed colour and zinged out a spoon-shaped tongue.

She remembered the hotel bar, and something called a Fallen Angel cocktail. There was a gluey taste of mint in the back of her mouth. The Dukes were usually inseparable, and that meant Sandalphon had been along too -- some kind of argument -- she vaguely recalled breakage and a large tip --

Something thudded from the foot of the bed to the floor as she sat up. It didn’t bear looking at too closely. Something else clanked as she threw the blanket off. Oh right. She’d bought that one.

Ligur snorted and rubbed his eyes.

“You’re awake,” she observed, brilliantly.

“Yes, mistress,” he replied.

* * *

Aziraphale waited twenty minutes after hearing the chime, watching the sky get paler. When he could see without producing his own light, he found his carpet slippers and tartan dressing-gown, making no sound but the soft groan of the spiral staircase as it took his weight.

Crowley sat, elbows on knees, head in his hands, on the couch where -- a few paces, and a world, away -- he'd drunk till dawn so many nights. It felt almost as if he were that distant again.

"Couldn't sleep," he finally said softly, not looking up.

"Neither could I."

"You never do."

"I thought I’d make an exception. I rather hoped you'd be there when I woke up, if I managed it."

There was an awful, endless moment of wondering whether Crowley would pull away when he sat down, and then a long arm went around him tightly.

"This means somethin' to you, dunnit."

"The chance that this might end all talk of war for good? That does mean a great deal." Aziraphale felt for Crowley’s bony, long-fingered hand, squeezed. "Standing up in front of all of them and professing how completely I love you? Even more -- but - "

"Then I'll -- "

" -- but right now, all I really care about is marrying you, and I'll take that however I can get it -- "

" -- I'll give it one more go, angel."

The windows lightened from pale gray to gold while they held each other.

"Come upstairs."

* * *

Apparently mortals practiced a strict ritual of silence in lifts. Dagon dropped her head back against the wall of the compartment, gills flushing as they opened and closed in a slow, frustrated rhythm. Human corporations defaulted to breathing with annoying frequency, but the gills made some impressive feats of osculation possible, especially for someone whose lips had a piscine configuration. If only Uriel hadn’t passed out from fatigue, things could have gotten a lot more experimental -- there was a hot tub in the suite -- but now the angel was trying to behave as if _nothing at all_ had happened. Prissy Celestials.

"I’m talking to the piper at ten," she said as the compartment settled. "You're finalizing the set with the Jamaicans at eleven -- they're in Croydon, I've gotten you an Oyster card-- ” The bell chimed, the doors slid open, and they stepped out onto the faux marble parquet to find themselves face to face with Sandalphon, debarking from the lift opposite, alongside Hastur, who sported a black eye and an almost unrecognizably blissful expression.

“Um,” said Sandalphon

“Ah,” came a voice from behind Dagon’s left shoulder. She turned and noted enviously that the stock of Michael's crepe blouse failed to quite cover a large hickey.

“”S’posed to be researchin’ the Human food thing, en’t we?” said Hastur, stretching luxuriously. “Brekky?”

* * *

"Did we say hazelnut cake? I thought we decided on raspberry. Well, it's too late to change it."

Aziraphale looked more harried than he had in the days before Tadfield Airbase. Fossilized cups of cocoa had been turning up under the furniture and on the staircase for the past week, and the angel had been evasive when Crowley noted some gaps in the shelves and asked if he'd actually been selling books.

"I thought the rehearsal went off well, if we don't count the part where you fell asleep -- "

"Was not sleepin'. Was resting m'eyes."

"The florist can't seem to source enough camellias now that it's the last minute, and wants us to sign off on chrysanthemums -- really, that's your department, Crowley -- "

"Bubs cut me out of the loop when I suggested Venus' fly-traps."

“And I told them, for the last time, none of this _stag night_ nonsense -- Did you see that _alarming_ object Michael sent over?”

"Stashed it in your nightstand."

Aziraphale tried to glower. The half-moon glasses were smudged, and he hadn't even noticed an inkstain on his jacket cuff.

“Liked t'see Gabriel get a lap dance,” mused Crowley.

“Oh, dear, is that what I think it is?”

“Could show you.”

"Don't be ridiculous, Crowley, you're dead on your feet -- "

" 'm' not on my feet."

"I know, and I'm too tired to do anything about it."

Aziraphale scrubbed his hands through his hair until the curls stood up fetchingly, if Crowley had had anything left to fetch.

“Let’s just focus. There's just these last few e-mails, and then I think we can hope for a well-deserved night's rest. It’ll all be over by this time tomorrow. Rings ready to pick up in the morning, I told them simple gold bands were the most Human thing… oh, dear, apparently they’ve reserved the Honeymoon Suite at the Ritz – “

“ _Someone,_ angel, those rooms're beyond tacky.”

“You didn’t complain when it miraculously became available the evening after we -- ”

“Was almost this knackered. 'nyplace I could lie down was fine.”

“I did have to carry you to the elevators – it took three miracles to keep people from noticing you were a snake at the time – oh, for pity’s sake, _table_ favours, I though we’d settled that – Photographer at _noon_? I thought we were starting at four –

"Fuck even _wakin' up_ by noon – “

“They wanted photos in Epping Forest -- you remember -- and now everyone on both sides wants to be in one, so there won't be enough time after the ceremony because the caterer's locked in for six, and then – “

Aziraphale was silent a moment, then shut down his vintage Amstrad with a fingersnap.

“Do you know, dear, I believe a change of plans is in order after all.”

* * *

The front of the Mayfair Library was bicycle parking only, but somehow no one had bothered the Bentley. Then again, it hadn't taken long.

"There, that was worth getting up before noon, now wasn't it?"

“Nice little miracle, puttin’ us on the schedule first thing.”

“Just exactly as we meant to manage it in the first place. Registry Office, one and done -- we’ll be on the Downs before they tumble to us, I’m sure we'll happen across a divine little B and B -- are we all packed?"

"Everything's in the boot. Even all those books you wanted."

"Well, one can't spend _all_ one's time... Do you fancy a bite of brunch before we go, Mr. Crowley-Fell?”

“That sounds like just the thing, Mr. Fell-Crowley.”

“The Wolseley, perhaps? Though they’re always so booked up.”

“I believe a table just became miraculously available.”

“Then let’s be off, Mr. Crowley-Fell.”

“Allow me to me hold the door for you, Mr. Fell-Crowley… What’re all these flies doin’ in here?” puzzled Crowley as he slid in behind the wheel.

A small, grimy hand dropped onto his shoulder.

“Principality,” came a smarmy voice from behind the passenger seat.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” said Beelzebub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I promise no angst? Just a teeny tiny bit. 
> 
> Come throw rice with me on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


	5. Chapter 5

_We’re already married,_ Crowley reminded himself. _Fuck, really, have been for centuries._ His entirely unnecessary heart shouldn’t be going like castanets.

Epping Forest had been full of midges, though possibly that was just down to the Hellish contingent, attired in an assortment of costumes so eccentric that at least one passerby could be heard talking about the Society for Creative Anachronism. They’d tried to get out of the photo shoot by arguing that it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony began, but Gabriel pointed out that (1) they were already standing right there together in front of him, (2) there was still no consensus on which was which, (3) the guests were getting antsy, and (4) an increasing number of irritated, impatient angels and demons in one place was a recipe for disaster.

 _He’s indecently beautiful,_ thought Aziraphale, wondering how he was going to speak past the thickness in his throat.

Late light slanted in the high windows, motes of Earth’s dust drifting in the sharper beams that sliced through at the edges of the curtains. A doughty pianist had just finished Edvard Grieg’s _Wedding Day At Troldhaugen;_ Aziraphale had used his last veto to quash Crowley's proposal that the death metal band lead in.

On one point they'd been united: who in Heaven or Hell had the authority to marry them? They’d written their own ceremony, then scrapped it as far too baffling for the staff of a London registry office, and now the words were battering to get out.

_Once upon a time, atop a wall…_

It was possibly the virtuoso miracle of their careers: a whole hall full of demons and angels rendered silent. There were only small squeaks and shuffles as various eccentric corporations sorted out the best way to occupy tufted chairs.

_I lost Her love, only to find yours…_

_Adversary of centuries, ally for eternity…_

_The only blessing I ever sought to deserve…_

_Comfort when comfort was gone, companion when there was no other…_

They’d gotten shit-faced after Golgotha, and when Aziraphale, instead of defending the Great Plan, had broken down weeping messily into Crowley’s _abaya_ , hacking out _how can She do this, how can She demand this,_ Crowley’d found the bitter barbs about _your lot_ and _goodness and mercy_ dying on his lips. Slipped away in the night so that the angel didn’t have to own to it in the morning. Maybe he’d known then.

_May my wings always shelter you..._

The nights in Wessex had been cruel and damp, and when the page had jumped back white-faced into Aziraphale's tent, babbling that there was an adder in the grass outside, he'd shown the boy, _look, no adder has these markings, and he's too drugged by cold to strike._ Warmed the creature against his skin, murmuring _I can't do what you asked for;_ knowing that one day soon, he would.

_May my coils always encircle you…_

The light in the room became brighter: the sun outside dropping below the level of the clouds, perhaps. Crowley’s voice had become utterly unlike itself -- barely supported, half wavering, cracking at one point in a little cough.

“Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, Guardian of Eden.” He lifted one hand, palm up, as if cradling a gift. "I bind myself to you, through eternity of this world and any to come.” Sixty centuries of experience working for Hell cultivates a meticulousness about contractual clauses.

Aziraphale clasped the extended hand. In the row roped off for the wedding party, Gabriel suppressed a start as small, indelibly grubby fingers wound through his.

“Anthony Crowley, Serpent of Eden, Great Deceiver, my teacher and my conscience -- " For a moment Aziraphale veered off script. "There are no words to describe all the ways in which you’ve saved me. I can only hope to repay you. In token of which -- I offer my hand, and I pray you never let it go. From this moment forward” _(about ten-twenty this morning, actually, but let’s not quibble)_ ”you are my husband, and I will never leave your side -- _our_ side -- again.”

“Fight with me forever, you beautiful, blessed _idiot_ ,” said Crowley under his breath.

“I promise to, you utter and absolute menace.”

One of the junior angels from Raphael’s staff advanced with a velveteen cushion.

“D’ye s’pose they understood anything we just said?” whispered Crowley, sliding his ring (again) onto Aziraphale's finger. “One single word?”

“Dear, we’ll teach them.”

Now the light was almost blinding, appearing to emanate from a point in the ceiling directly above them. The demons squinted and winced. A few of the angels knelt.

It wasn’t exactly a voice. It wasn’t exactly anything that anyone could describe, but it felt like a blessing, one that for a moment blotted out all the millennia in which demons could experience blessing only as a punishment, a reminder of what they’d lost; and as it faded, there was the distinct sound of a disgruntled quack.

They kissed, and didn't care that the assembled hosts of Hell and Heaven were looking on.

* * *

“The wedding feast of the Principality Aziraphale and the Demon Crowley, beginning with revelry and ending with utter obliviation, is now in session. Beelzebub, Lord of Flies, and the Archangel Gabriel, complete and entire Heavenly arsehole, presiding. All drink.”

“ _Oh, it’s goin’ to be Amateur Night,”_ whispered Crowley, leaning back and lacing his fingers in the angel's.

“ _Not with this awful Merlot. I’m sure I chose the Garnacha.”_

“Such a joker, Lord B. Got a point, I admit I’m always blowing my own horn, but I’m here today to talk about an all-round great guy. It feels like I’ve known Aziraphale forever, you know? And can you imagine that the last time he was Upstairs, I told him to _shut up and die already_? Well, today I’m here to say Az, good buddy, _shut up and live happily_ _ever after_. You’ve shown us a new path, and it involves a lot of this Human beverage. Charge your glasses, folks. To the happy couple.”

“ _Can I tie his shoelaces together? Just a little?”_

_“Just smile, dear.”_

* * *

“I thought we programmed the string group – “

“ – they’re on later – “

“The bride’s father dances with her – “

“Looks like that’s you and m’angel, squire.”

“I am _not,”_ said Aziraphale. "Not to _death metal."_

“Just ‘cos you only know the gavotte.”

“Well, Prince, you could dance with the demon Crowley.”

“The Hell zhe will.”

“Exactly,” said Gabriel.

“All right, you and me then, Archangel,” said Beelzebub, and dragged him out onto the floor.

* * *

“They don’t actually eat _maggots_ in Earthly cultures–-?” Gabriel was still a little dizzy, and at first thought he was only imagining that the contents of the steam tray were – no, they actually were –

“Hastur slipped those in.” Michael’s _sangfroid,_ as always, was impressive.

“They’re _wriggling.”_

“It’s going to take a few miracles to deal with the catering staff’s memories.”

"What kind of music is that?”

“ _Filmi –_ it’s from those Bollywood movies, that’s Crowley in the sari – “

“Isn’t that the steel pan band?’

“Multicultural, like you said.”

“I can’t eat this.”

“Give it to the goose.”

“I thought we sent all those up with the Metatron.”

“This one got attached.”

“Is that _Phanuel_ arm wrestling with Marchosias?”

“I’ll make sure it doesn’t get out of hand.”

* * *

"Don't remember approvin' this many guests."

"I gather there are always gate-crashers, dear. It's something of a Human tradition."

"Might've invented it."

"I should have known, you scalawag."

"Free food, free booze, chance t'get laid -- "

"Well, we can resupply with a quiet miracle or two, but I fear that as to that last, they're on their own -- "

"So I shouldn't've told that clerk from the Lust department to go talk to Cassiel? He looked lonely."

"Introducing a lonely angel to an amorous demon? I don't know what you could have been thinking, dear. Imagine what might happen."

* * *

“Uriel? The streaming video’s cut out again. I just got a call from Downstairs.”

“It’sh – _snif –_ working at our end. Le’me reboot.”

“Maybe I’d better handle it – “

“Y’r all pink. Gills’re all pink. Never shaw you pink. You drink annya this? Ish pink.”

“Let me handle it. Sit.”

“ ‘M’sho – sho ‘shamed, Dagon. Sho ’shamed I hurt him. Ov’r Crowley. Look how mush they – _snif_ – love each’ther.”

“Here, have a napkin.”

“No’n lovesh me like that. Even _She_ dun' love me like that.” Uriel sobbed into the oversized buffet napkin, leaving faint gilded stains. “Thish Earth liquor makesh me see thingsh diff’rent.”

“There, there -- a turn outside will do you good –- this place has some -- _immersive_ features that I think we should appreciate more closely."

“ _Ohhhhh._ Now your gill’sh’re really pink – “

“We'll just slip out this way.”

* * *

“Well, the _rapprochement_ business seems to be getting on swimmingly.”

“Is Gabriel doing _shots_ with Belphagor? Thought he was all about avoidin’ gross matter, ‘n’ that.”

“Oh, he quite went the length of the buffet earlier. Sudden metabolism of some sort. It may have had something to do with Prince B. hand-feeding him samples.”

“Might not want to see where this is headed.”

“My dear, I do believe it’s time for the newlyweds to make an exit.”

* * *

“Here we are, Archangel – easy now -- I understand the kneeling position is traditional, but wrapping your legs around the fixture is also accepted –-”

“Aaack. Hngh. Is this part of the ritual I missed?”

“Cultures vary. I believe this is referred to as _worshiping the porcelain goddess_.”

“That’s blasphemy –– _rrrcccchhhh!!”_

“So was that Merlot.”

“Fucking Sandalphon. Cutting corners.”

* * *

“Red truly is _your_ colour, dear.”

“Chinese. The bride wears the red dress to say _we’re leaving now.”_

“Oh, that’s why you changed. You, I mean, not the dress.”

“Can change back if you want.”

“There’s absolutely no hurry about that. I don’t think I’ve seen you like this since the Dowlings’. Let’s make everyone envious.”

* * *

The shivaree outside the Ritz was the first one Central London had seen in – well, possibly in history, and at first there was confusion over whether some underdog football side had brought off an upset. Genuine pots and pans had been miracled up and banged together (though some demons, especially, were equipped with large stainless steel serving spoons and trays of the sort found on steam tables), and a befuddled piper was never able to explain afterwards exactly how he got there. The Metropolitan Police were not amused, especially not by the large, red-faced, all but incoherent gentleman who insisted repeatedly that he was the _Archangel fucking Gabriel,_ until they finally brought out the darbies; no one quite understood how he disappeared from the back of the van on the way to the station, handcuffs and all.

The small, unsmiling person who appeared in the lobby with a bow-bedecked goose, asking that it be delivered to the couple in the Honeymoon Suite, looked vexed to discover that no couple had ever checked into the Honeymoon Suite.

* * *

“Whiffed fish goin' by the fountain, s'pose we should've seen what that was about?" said Crowley. Eyesight was not his strongest sense.

"I'm sure they didn't want to be disturbed, dear," said Aziraphale. “We had quite enough to do cleaning up here. I suppose they meant well,” he added absently, patting the Bentley's dash. _Just Married_ in whitewash had been an especially arresting message next to Crowley’s rear-window bullet-hole decal.

"You serious about donatin' all the gifts? I mean I, ah, scooped up a few."

"Dear, after six thousand years on Earth, I'm sure we already have two of everything."

"Fair enough. Right then, off to scare some rental host out've his bedsocks.”

“The angel will say, Fear not. We'll probably even get a discount.”

“Here's the M3 comin' up - anyplace special in mind? ”

“Let’s just give the Bentley her head. She's been so patient.”

“Very good, Mr. Fell-Crowley.”

“Off we go, Mr.-and-or-Ms. Crowley-Fell.”

* * *

Gabriel’s head felt larger than it ever had, which was saying something, and his eyelids appeared to be glued together. When he did manage to pry them open, he found himself surrounded by more pastels, gilt, and floor-to-ceiling windows than in Heaven's most opulent corner office.

A fly buzzed in his ear. At some distance, possibly from the en-suite bath, there was a plaintive honk.

“Oh, _fuck,”_ he groaned.

“Whatever,” came a muffled voice from beneath the heaped bedclothes. “We have the suite till Sunday. There seemed no point in letting it go spare.”

A small, grimy hand emerged from the rumples of pale-pink floral brocade, dangling a pair of handcuffs.

“Your turn,” the bedspread said.

* * *

"What’s this, angel? Oooof – what time’s it?”

“Compliments of the house. And it’s just gone noon.”

“Give’s that coffee. How d’we rate?”

“Ah – well, we missed one of the signs on the Bentley. Mine host saw _Just Married_ on the roof and rose to a breakfast tray after we missed the last sitting. Let’s see – kippers, beans, toast _,_ mushrooms – he must think we’ve worked up an appetite – grilled tomatoes -- “

“Can’t get up. Limbless" (this was patently untrue at the moment, but Crowley flopped back and thrashed about pathetically). "Feed your snake.”

“You are spoilt.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“It does defray the moment when we have to explain how one arrives with a dazzling bride in a scarlet dress and comes downstairs with a handsome gentleman – “

“ ‘nother miracle can’t hurt. _”_

“He was very gracious – asked me to pass on his congratulations on _the first day of the rest of our lives –_ oh, what’s this under the toast rack?”

It was a terrifyingly familiar deckle-edged stationery.

“That wasn’t there a moment ago.”

There was a smiley face on it.

“I almost daren’t.”

_Quick note, kinda busy. Just wanted to say, Ritz is fantastic. Gross matter A-1 quality. Diplomacy prospering beyond all expectations. Can’t thank you guys enough for leaving it to us._

_You can help us plan ours._

There were little horns over the G and a small halo over the B.

Aziraphale contemplated a moment and snapped. The letter dissolved in a blue-white burst of flame.

“I believe,” he said, “we will find ourselves regrettably occupied for the duration.” 

“Startin' with _this_ ,” said Crowley, reaching for him.

_finis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I ever marry my Aziraphale-equivalent -- feature me, a high-strung redhead, living with a chubby, diffident aficionado of baked goods -- the music's going to be [_Wedding Day At Troldhaugen._](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gq83dUB37rI&list=RDgq83dUB37rI&start_radio=1&t=0) The wedding in question was the composer's own, commemorated by the piece on his silver anniversary. 
> 
> You think I was kidding about the [Bollywood music on steel drums?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6GESpJ0Kcno)
> 
> For anyone who hasn't already seen images of the Honeymoon Suite at the Ritz: .  
> YMMV but this author cannot imagine a more anaphrodisiac setting for a wedding night.
> 
> I mean, it's _pink._
> 
> If you enjoyed, share, comment, party with me on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


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